


He Only Exists on the Weekend

by TheBlackCatPounce



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Complete, F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackCatPounce/pseuds/TheBlackCatPounce
Summary: A short college AU. It about those people that can only be honest when they're drunk and then it doesn't really count as honesty. How easy it is to fall for the people that hurt us and how we stay with them even when we know better. Tom can only be real when he's messed up and Hermione can look past it-for now.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37





	He Only Exists on the Weekend

She had met Tom on the weekend before the first day of her third year of university. He was at a party she wasn't sure how she had gotten to. He was smoking a cigarette on the front porch when she arrived and she couldn't believe he was real for a second. The two glasses of wine she had before leaving her apartment felt like twenty. He seemed out of focus, like he didn't fit the scene. A girl was laughing on the porch as she handed a red solo cup to another guy next to her. Someone was slamming their Uber door as they arrived at the red house. Hermione had heard from the friend of a friend that this was the address. She sent a text, asking where Harry was. She decided to head inside rather than linger, waiting for someone to arrive and keep her company. It was just a house party, after all. What was there to be afraid of?

  
As she walked up the outside steps, paint fading, she stole another glance at him. He was gorgeous, simply put. He was wearing black pants, they were skinny and he was tall. His dark blue button-down was rolled up, ink peeking out from the sleeve. He felt older than he looked and he made her _ache_. Her glance overstayed its welcome and he met her gaze. Grey eyes locked onto hers and she breathed in. He looked her up and down like he was sizing her up, deciding whether to spend his time on her. Finally he said, "Hello." His accent captured her. And that was the very first night. She said it back. He offered her a drink, she drank it. He offered his phone number and she texted him. She forgot about her friends, he ignored the people he knew. He walked her home, drunk. He smiled at her.

  
She didn't see him smile again until the next Saturday. He invited her to another party. This time it wasn't at the red house. It was at a big, fancy house on the other side of town. She was surprised he knew whoever lived here. They hadn't spoken throughout the week. He was an erratic texter, sometimes he replied right away. Sometimes, he never said anything, even when she asked a direct question. Honestly, she probably shouldn't even have come to the fancy house. She had only the basic facts: 21, history degree, British. The memories of the first night they met were hazy. They had talked about literature, because, of course, what else do you talk about at the posh university you're paying an arm to attend? The party at the fancy house was fun and he rode back in the taxi with her. This time he kissed her goodnight and he tasted like cigarettes and something else she couldn't identify.

  
The next weekend was the same. She wasn't like this. She didn't party, she focused on school. Boys were for later in life. Until she met Tom. He was Tom. He was a magnet and she couldn't stay away. Eventually, he was her every weekend. Then he would disappear and she started to wonder if he even existed during the week. Once she texted him demanding answers after spending the night at his place, what are we? He didn't respond for three days, till Friday. We're just hanging out, see you tomorrow night? And she said yes, even though they weren't just hanging out.

  
It was late Fall by now and the nights were colder. She noticed this because it took longer for all their clothes to fall to the floor after arriving at her place that Saturday. He was tender and loving. In the morning, he was getting dressed and leaving before she could even offer coffee. The week was tormenting her, waiting to see him again. He treated her like nothing and then on the weekend, he would find her, already half fucked-up from the ever present cigarette and a few shots of rum. He would kiss her, pressing her body against the wall and everything was forgiven.

  
Then there were the tears, the questioning. Why couldn't he just be normal? Why did he only want her when he was already fucked up? Why couldn't he just be sober. She wished and wished for him to bring their magnetic, perfect places into the daylight. But he wouldn't; he had too many ambitions and other things to do. The week was off-limits and the weekends became the thing she lived for.  
Until one Thursday night when she was crying because he didn't reply again and she had given him every single piece of her. She had told him her fear and shed her tears in their shared Saturday bed. That Saturday night, she didn't show up to the red house and she didn't bring him back to her apartment and she didn't fall into bed with him and then discuss things till the sun rose while he chain smoked. He didn't text again because he wasn't like that. He was pride personified, so why would he?


End file.
